


Paperback Writer

by missmollyetc



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Body Modification, M/M, National Hockey League, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes it seems like he can trace every one of his firsts to Taylor pushing him that one step further.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paperback Writer

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my friends for listening, and stepquietly for catching all the typos. <3

He’s lying on his back in the middle of their living room, naked, and Taylor is perched above him. He’s kneeling between Jordan’s thighs, flushed and sweating, dick smearing precome up Jordan’s inner thigh. Jordan cups his hands around his own cock, holding the base with his left hand and corkscrewing up to the head with his right. Taylor swallows around the black pen cap clenched between his lips. Jordan can smell the ink already. He licks his lips, and takes a quick breath; his stomach trembles.

Taylor frowns, pale blond eyebrows dragging together, and Jordan holds his breath. He can see dust motes flying in the air, little white dots in the sunlight. He shudders when the tip of the pen digs into him, right under his nipple, tightening his grip on his cock. Taylor looms over him, and the memory of his bulk, his thick shoulders and the width of his thighs holds Jordan in place as he writes. Jordan’s hands are slick and getting sloppy; he rubs his heels against the carpet, legs pumping uselessly. 

Hallsy carries around the kinds of Sharpies they use in factories—like _industrial grade_ or some shit. The sort you buy twelve in a box, with tips guaranteed to never soften and thick, grey plastic bodies. It’s not a fame thing, the whole team would be chirping him to hell and back if it were, it was just a…a Taylor thing, a thing Taylor does. He likes taking notes.

He does it everywhere, on the backs of his hands and the insides of his wrists, and about a month into sharing a place with him, he’d started using Jordan as his writing board. Stupid shit, little dumbass things like _buy milk_ and _Monday optional #Beauty!_ on Jordan’s forearms. Reminders that didn’t make any sense to Jordan, and probably barely do to Taylor either, but when he’d run out of room on himself, shit got put down on Jordan. 

At first it was just a thing, something weird Taylor did, and Jordan didn’t pay it much attention. He kept receipts, Taylor liked taking bullshit notes, what-the-fuck-ever-pass-the-Xbox. Only somebody had to do the laundry sometimes, and that ‘sometimes’ turned out to be always and that ‘somebody’ turned out to be ‘him,’ and when your fucking roomie has ink stains in all his pockets and on the cuffs of his sleeves, you start to take kind of an interest. Sort of. It was just hard to clean.

He didn’t say anything about it because, well, what the fuck? Stop writing shit on your hands, dude, we ran out of stain remover yesterday? What kind of roommate cared about fucking…ring around the collar anyway?

But it was like, now he’d noticed, Jordan couldn’t _not_ notice and it was a fucking _thing_ like it hadn’t been before, because Taylor took a lot of notes and he never fucking had paper. It was really fucking inconsiderate of him.

The ink wasn’t ever cold, though, and never, like, upsetting or anything. It should have been, maybe, because it fucking stains his shirts all the time, except instead it’s always warm and wet and… It’s kind of nice. It feels…it feels like…he’s never felt like this before. He’s never let anyone spread him out like this, strip him off and lay him out in the living room—if he turns his head, Jordan can see right out onto their patio through the sliding glass door for fuck’s sake. Sometimes it seems like he can trace every one of his firsts to Taylor pushing him that one step further.

He _likes this_ now; Taylor treating him like a post-it note, or whatever, and the way Jordan takes off his shirt to shower and can see their entire day peppered over his arms. _Get Corndogs. Call Mom. Golf at ten? #BEAUTY!!!_ all up to the inside of his elbows, and their initials scrawled across Jordan’s knuckles ‘cause Hallsy’s weird and thinks they should start a gang. The heart on his side Taylor must’ve drawn after Jordan fell asleep, and the shit he put into between Jordan’s shoulder blades that he can’t quite ever see.

Taylor finishes writing. He spits out the cap towards the couch and ducks his head, pressing a kiss to Jordan’s nipple, and pulls back with ink on his lips smudged like make up. Jordan’s hips try to wiggle up off the floor and Taylor frowns.

“Knock it off, you non,” he says. He sticks the pen in his mouth, and grabs Jordan’s wrists, tugging. Jordan tilts his head back, chin to the ceiling, and groans. “Come on, come on,” he hears Hallsy mutter, muffled by the pen. “Gimme some space, dude, _come on_.”

He pushes his thumbs against the little bones in Jordan’s wrists, grunting when Jordan knees him in the side, and pulls until he’s pried Jordan’s hands off his cock. Jordan’s breath whistles out of his mouth as he shakes; his cock bounces off his belly and down his left thigh. Taylor leans over, the pen drops from his mouth and thuds against Jordan’s collarbone. Jordan pauses, feeling its weight against his throat, and then Taylor is kissing the tip of his chin and up to the dip below his lower lip. 

“I promise, it’s cool,” Taylor whispers. “Just a bit more or I’ll forget.”

Jordan swallows, skin prickling all over, but he nods, and Taylor leans back, letting go. He puts pen to skin again, quick, deep lashes down the middle of Jordan’s chest. The wet tip of his cock brushes against Jordan’s balls. Jordan feels his lips part, slides his tongue through the crack and across his dry lips.

“What are you…” Jordan clears his throat, and bends his knees outward. “What are you writing?”

“To-do list,” Taylor says, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, and Jordan is fucking _sick_ or something because that sounds so good, a to-do list, Honey-Do, Taylor’s list all over him, he’ll have to lift his shirt up so Taylor can check it off…Jesus, that’s…he’s so… His fingers dig into the carpet.

Jordan shakes his head, quick jerks back and forth to try and clear it, but all his blood is rushing through his head—he can hear it roaring—down to his cock. Taylor’s writing moves down, from his ribs to his belly and the nib bites a little there, needle sharp stings, like Taylor’s got a tattoo gun instead of a Sharpie in his hand. Jordan opens his mouth to ask again, and a moan tumbles out. Taylor rocks his hips forward into Jordan, rubbing their cocks together, and pushes his free hand into Jordan’s stomach. He writes his name low on Jordan’s belly—Jordan knows his signature by now—and traces a curlicue beneath it. The pen touches his dick, and Jordan comes, shaking.


End file.
